Soup
by Sierra Janeway
Summary: Sick days are a million times worse for the brilliant, as Seb Moran can attest to. Jim/Seb friendship. And a bit of Jim Whump.


_Disclaimer: All original characters and such belong to the BBC._

**Summary: **Sick days are a million times worse for the brilliant, as Seb Moran can attest to. Jim/Seb friendship. And a bit of Jim Whump.

**Chronology: **None specific

**Pairings: **None for the moment

**Rating: **T for mild cursing

**Author's Note:** For Starkreactor - a get-well-soon gift. Also my first time writing whump while knowing what it is!

* * *

><p><strong>Soup<strong>

"Do not waaaaaant," Jim whined into the pillow, slumped on his stomach on the couch in a rumpled robe and backwards sweatpants and a white t-shirt.

Sebastian rolled his eyes but with extreme effort managed to not chuck the glass of water or the bottle of pills at his boss' head. He was honestly surprised at how completely a mild cold had reduced Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal and general badass, to a petulant child.

"Jim. You've got a fever – you're practically setting the couch on fire. Take something."

"No!"

"Jim."

He buried his face further into the pillow and made a long, drawn-out noise like air being let out of a balloon.

Seb sighed and silently counted to ten. Then, miraculously, inspiration struck. "Jim, high fevers can cause hallucinations and lead to brain damage. _Brain_ damage. How does that sound to you? Your lovely brain all scrambled to bits?"

With a moan, Jim turned over and made grabby hands at the medicine and the water.

Surprised and relieved, Seb handed them over quickly and watched carefully to make sure his employer actually swallowed the pills. When he was sure he had, he took back the bottle but left him the water with a stern look. "Drink that. You need to stay hydrated."

Jim whined and tried to hand it back.

"No. Drink it."

"Don't want to."

"JUST…" Seb stopped and sighed again. "Just do it, okay? How do you expect to keep taking cases if you ruin your health by not allowing time for recovery?"

With something like a whimper, Jim curled into the fetal position. "I'm not _supposed_ to get sick!"

"Just because you're brilliant doesn't mean you're invincible."

Jim mumbled something that sounded like "not fair" as Seb turned and headed into the bathroom.

"You are such a child," Seb muttered under his breath.

"Heard thaaaaaat," Jim whined.

Seb growled. Putting the medicine away, he looked over the array of remedies and cloths and things that he'd tried to make his boss take advantage of when he first started getting sick, to no avail. _He must be really miserable now_, Seb thought as he put the things away, _to even take a painkiller._

The sniper spent the next fifteen minutes tidying the flat from Jim's various messes and fits from the past three days, trying to ignore the whines and groans and moans and whimpers coming from the living room. He would have felt bad, but he'd offered enough medication and whatnot that it was Jim's own fault that he was miserable.

However, it was finally too much to take. His ears hurt and he was afraid he would start breaking things if the noise and whiny comments lasted any longer. He cast around the rooms, looking for something, anything, he hadn't tried yet.

He was walking past the refrigerator when he remembered something with a twinge of embarrassment. He weighed his options for a minute, seesawing between the probable outcome and what Jim might do to him if he ever found out. An especially grating noise from his employer just then sealed the deal, and Seb opened the fridge with purpose and began strewing things on the counters.

"Here," he said with authority, almost an hour later.

Jim turned from his face-down position on the couch so that one eye was angled up at Seb suspiciously. "You were making an awful lot of noise," he accused.

"You're one to talk," Seb muttered as loud as he dared.

Jim nodded at the bowl in his employee's hands. "Is that what you were banging around all those pots for?"

"Yes. It's soup. Eat it."

Moriarty buried his face back in the pillow. "Don't waaaaaant."

"Jim, I'm serious." All the pent-up irritation surged in Seb's veins and before he knew it he added menacingly, "It's this or a doctor."

His boss' head snapped up. "You wouldn't _dare_."

"I would." Seb set the bowl on the nearby coffee table with authority, clinking a spoon down next to it. "You can threaten me all you want, but I don't think I need to remind you that you're in a compromised state at the moment."

Jim gave him a horrible scowl but actually sat up and resentfully took the bowl into his hands.

Seb sank into a chair opposite him and watched as Moriarty slowly brought some of the liquid to his lips. The sick man then paused and stared at his employee, just short of actually taking in the food.

"You might as well get going," he said. "I'm sitting here until I see you eat."

The other man scowled again and took a cautious sip at the spoon. A look of surprise flickered over his face before he could suppress it. "This doesn't taste like canned soup…" he said, suddenly suspicious.

"Yeah, well," Seb said, adjusting his seat. "When was the last time you had chicken noodle soup? You're a meat and potatoes guy."

Jim made a whiny noise and continued to eye him.

"Just eat it."

Slowly, somehow resigned to his fate, Jim did.

Seb watched, hiding his own surprise, until the soup was gone.

Jim inelegantly shoved the bowl and spoon back at him, moaning again. "_There_. Does that make you happy then, Sebby? Satisfied I won't die now? Maybe feel like leaving me in peace?"

The sniper said nothing, but gathered up the dishes and retreated to the kitchen to wash them. He silently praised the heavens that for whatever reason, he had retained his great-grandmother's chicken soup recipe in his memory for all these years.

As he tidied the kitchen, hiding any and all evidence that he knew how to cook and retained any sort of real domestic skills whatsoever, he realized with a start that Jim had not made any noises for the past several minutes. His chest leapt with two kinds of fear: one, that Jim had collapsed and possibly died, and two, that he was planning something sinister in retaliation for Seb's ministrations. He darted into the living room, prepared for basically anything.

Except what he found.

Jim, curled on his side, peacefully asleep.

Seb stood and watched for several minutes, making sure he saw what he thought he saw, and then went back over the cooking preparations he'd made. Sure, he'd toyed with the idea of drugging Jim's food on several occasions, but he'd never actually done it and never intended to do it. And yet there Jim was, out like a light. He puzzled over the situation for about another minute before he realized that it didn't matter how the soup had worked its magic, just that it had. The quiet settled all through the flat was music to Seb's ears, making him so grateful that he risked tiptoeing to the couch to drape a blanket over Jim.

He tiptoed away, back to the kitchen, poured himself a fairly stiff drink, sank into a chair, sighed with relief, and toasted his great-grandmother.


End file.
